314 Redwood Avenue is a tiny, decrepit house just on the edge of a small village called Rosewood. There are ten houses on Redwood Avenue, all identical to the very last detail, four of them unoccupied, the other six filled with people who are not keen on making friends.
That's why, on the sixteenth of January, six and a half years after Annabeth Jackson moved there with a baby and fifty thousand dollars, running away from her scumbag husband and his stupid shit, she's not exactly expecting any visitors.
Perseus Jackson isn't a name that many people know. He's made sure of that. The only people that know this name exists are, in this order:
his mother
some bitch he knew in highschool (his wife)
Everyone else mysteriously died off, through the years.
Three months ago, Perseus Jackson met up with an old contact named Bob. Bob was a simple guy, who did his level best to do his job. The job always got done, with Bob.
The first thing Bob said was a name Percy hadn't heard in a while:
"Annabeth."
The second thing Bob said was a phrase Percy thought he'd never hear:
"Your child."
Percy hadn't really heard the rest of the conversation after that.
Three months later, after countless hours of searching, finding, killing, Percy was here.
He had found her.
And he was angry.
When Annabeth got home that day, after picking up her son and promising to come back later for the late shift, she knew something was wrong.
The door to the house was slightly open, almost so subtle that she missed it. (But Annabeth had experience with these sorts of things: she knew never to let her guard down.)
She quietly turned to her son and motioned across the street, where sweet old Mrs. Hestia lives. She whispered for him to "go."
Then, she calmly took out something small, black, and deadly out of her purse, pointed it in front of her, and walked in the house.
Sitting in her favorite armchair was her husband. Her fucked-up, shit husband.
He met her eyes, she put her hand on the trigger of her black black gun, and squeezed.
But he was too fast.
In seconds, she was up against the wall, her hands so twisty-tied she couldn't move, and he was pressed against her.
"Annabeth," he said, and she couldn't fight anymore. He smelled like vanilla and ocean, the same as he always did, and all her memories were coming back now, all the times he kissed her, all the times he yelled, how he protected her from everyone but himself. He was so selfish, and she couldn't stop loving him.
He released her because he could feel her sobs.
An hour later, Annabeth is sitting on the couch, fighting back the nausea rising in her stomach.
Her son might come back, and she doesn't want Percy to know about him. She doesn't even know why Percy was here.
Currently, Percy is making a cup of coffee and trying to calm himself before he asks her about the child. He's looking for pictures and drawings, anything to prove that it's real, that all of the reports weren't fake. That he hasn't made the biggest mistake of his life.
He finally walks into the bedroom of the house, and sees two beds. A queen sized bed that's perfectly made, and a smaller, considerably messier one that's has a small dresser and has a single blue teddy bear resting on top of the cover.
His heart leaps in his throat. He quickly strides back to the living room, trying to push down all of the feelings that have just started to rise up again.
When he gets there, Annabeth jumps, and stands up, backing away from him.
The look on her face stops him in his tracks.
Fear.
She should never be scared of him. He sits down.
Silence.
"When were you going to tell me, Annabeth?" He pauses, and looks up. "Were you ever going to tell me?"
Her silence is the only answer he needs.
Perseus Jackson hasn't cried in ten years, but a single tear runs down his cheek.
Annabeth sits down next to him.
"I need to see it. The child." Annabeth frowns.
"Our child." He says. "I need to see our child."
Annabeth sits in silence for a while, her cheeks stained with tears.
"His name is Luke."
this is a one-shot idk if I should continue I probably won't. also unedited sorry